


Eve of Kingdoms' End

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crossdressing, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the war begins, a ball is held on Prospit. A chance encounter takes place between two white-shelled ladies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eve of Kingdoms' End

The Parcel Mistress bounced her fingers off each other a few times, before catching herself, and forcing her hands into her jacket pockets. The soothing jazz arrangement did little to soothe her nerves, and she found herself making a beeline to the punch bowl.

She had a day off.

A day off? What does that even mean? She was the Parcel Mistress. Delivering the mail was her life. The post must flow.

Yet, there is one day when there is no letters to be sent. One passing rotation when everything to be said has already been said. The fated day foretold by the cumulseer cloudscape of Skaia.

PM poured herself a glass of punch and gulped it down. The fruity fermentoxins tingle on the way down, and leave her with a pleasant buzz.

Tomorrow, the prince and princess of Prospit would be coronated.

PM loosened her tie a little. Alcohol always did get her hot and bothered.

Tomorrow, the brave soldiers would receive their holy vestments, as chosen by the heroes.

She fiddled with the white carnation affixed to her breast pocket.

Tomorrow, the king would leave for the battlefield, where he will die.

She sighed, and poured herself another drink.

Tomorrow, Prospit and Derse go to war, where both will lose.

PM looked at all the people gathered in the golden hall. Some talk, some jest, some dance and some just watch, all while wearing their finest formal clothing. The king and queen fondly regard their subjects from the balcony overhead. For her part, PM wore her best pressed suit, tailor made and worth every boondollar, even if she rarely got the chance to wear it. Prospit had much in the way of female fashion, but none of it appealed to PM as much as a well-made suit. That said, the tailor had taken a few liberties in the design, for instance the shirt of the suit was not as long as it probably should have been.

Today, all of Prospit celebrates their impending doom, with the fervor and good cheer only the truly nihilistic can muster.

The musicians upped the tempo of their freeform blues, and filled the air with their vibrant sounds.

The crowd rippled as more white shelled figures joined in the dance. The circle at the centre of the hall swelled with people.

A flash of green and black caught the Parcel Mistress's eye. Prospitan fashion typically erred towards pastel colours, so such was ensemble is quite unusual. PM finished her punch and made her way across the dance floor. With the grace and dexterity of one passionate about the post, she stepped and weaved around her swinging peers, and emerged on the other side unscathed.

Ah, there's the owner, a short little carapace wearing a floor sweeping black and green gown. PM recognised her as the Queen's aid, the lovely Ms Paint. A stout, burly man seemed to be playing an eerily slow game of tag with her, with each shuffling a half inch every other second. The lady in the dress glanced about nervously. Clearly these advances were unwelcome.

PM strode towards the two, and tapped the Metheless Knockabouter on the shoulder. He spun around in a quaking trundle and glared at her. PM authoritively gestured for him to leave.

He refused, and mocked her lack of girth. You need girth to pull off a suit, girth and plenty of hard knocks. He shoots Ms Paint a knowing leer. She nervously backs away.

The Parcel Mistress punched the Metheless Knockabouter in the snout, establishing interpersonal boundaries. His pride and ugly mug wounded, MK skulks away to find an easier dame to hit on.

 

PM turned and scratched the back of her head apologetically. She was not a violent person, but when choiced between violence and cowardice, violence was less loathsome. Ms Paint offered her a glass of vinejuice, and PM suddenly became very aware of their height difference. The classy lady only came up to PM's chest, and the short suit shirt left the lady with an unobstructed gander of her naked navel. Well, navel is a little inaccurate. Strictly speaking, it's the petiole.

The Parcel Mistress took the drink, and tried not to think about how the little lady seemed to be ogling her exposed, soft white underbelly. She sipped the drink, and instead choses to notice how nicely Ms Paint's strapless dress hugged her womanly curves. PM smiled and brushed the hem of the dress. It wa soft like silk, and shimmered as it moved, glittering like the night sky. It was very beautiful. Ms Paint blushed, and swayed her hips bashfully with her hands clutched together. It was a gift from a friend. He wasn't here tonight, but she'll be seeing him soon. PM nodded. He sounded like a good friend.

The band started a new song, and on a whim, PM took Ms Paint's hand. With little protest, the smaller woman was led to the dance floor. Quarter and eighth notes abounded, putting a little swing in everybody's step. PM stopped, turned, and pulled Ms Paint close. Their glossy black eyes peered deep into each other and the dance began. 

Chitin-cased feet tapped about the hardwood floor with a taka-taka-taka. PM clutched Ms Paint's hands in her own and leads, holding her close as they chain-step their way around the crowded room. The fast paced steps and hops did well to show off Ms Paint's curvy white legs, accompanied by the occasional whisper of thigh. PM wished she had an extra limb or two, so she could loosen her tie a bit more without interrupting the fast paced dance- terribly fast, those musicians must be playing at least three hundred and twenty beats a minute. It took all of her delivery experience and training to keep her legs moving fast enough. Each note was as an unchained Doberman, and she must dance. Ms Paint on the other hand, seems to have no such difficulty. Her buggy legs jittered across the floor like a spider performing a ballet, all the while beaming with just the sweetest smile PM had ever seen. The dance goes on. Carapace rubbed against carapace in the tight-knitted throng of bustle and swing. Unnoticed and anonymous, a white-suited Parcel Mistress danced with a painting lady in a black dress, just one couple of many.

 

Ms Paint yelped, and fell to the ground. Quickly, before any wayward feet could harm her, PM swept the shorter woman into her arms and carried her away from the throng. 

Once clear, she inspected her companion. The dear Ms Paint seems to have twisted her ankle. Not knowing what else to do, the Parcel Mistress carried Ms Paint to the back balcony, and gently lowered her to the ground. She then kneeled, and placed the lady's injured foot on her knee. 

PM inspected the limb with her hands, feeling for cracks or bruises in the chitin. 

Ah, there it is, just a sprain, miss. Nothing to be... PM's eyes lingered for a few moments more than decency allowed before tearing her gaze away. Her dorsal aorta pumped so hard the blood started to show beneath her thinner clypeus face plate. The lovely Ms Paint was wearing her dress, and nothing but her dress. There was a very specific 'nothing' that was being worn beneath that dress, and the way PM was holding her leg up just afforded the mail lady a lewd look at all of the bits the aforementioned nothing isn't covering up. Of course, it's not unreasonable. A visible panty line is a terrible thing, not that PM has much experience with that, but there was still far too much seeing of things that cannot be excused in polite company.

 

Ms Paint giggled at PM's bashfulness, and sat up. Careful not to put weight on her injured ankle, she crept along the ground and into the suited girl's lap. PM pat about the ground for a bit before wrapping her arms around Ms Paint's waist, and pulling her against her chest. Ms Paint gave another giggle, like birds chirping in the night. PM let out a content sigh, and looked up to the Prospitan sky. In the absence of an eclipse, the ever black sky twinkled with stars, not secrets. 

PM sighed contently, while Ms Paint lets out a coo of pleasure. PM flinched, and finds herself aware of the feeling of soft chitin beneath her fingertips. She looked down, and saw that, in her absent minded appreciation of the scenery, her hand decided to do a little appreciation of its own, and was now stroking Ms Paint's thigh through her dress. The dress which, as PM's imaginations made sure to remind her was the sole item of clothing worn by the elegant little lady.

Ms Paint looked up at her, blinked those long black lashes, and urged her to continue. Not one to leave a lady waiting, PM complied. She hiked Ms Paint's dress up a bit and slid a long arm beneath it. She stroked her fingers up the length of Ms Paint's femur, and manually searched for the softer segments of her exoskeleton. She forced herself to ignore what waits –exposed- between the lady's legs. That would be terribly uncouth. Instead her fingers skirted across Ms Paint's petiole, and around to her back where they teased about the edge of her bulla. Ms Paint let out another tittering giggle. Emboldened, the Parcel Mistress reached further around, and caressed the smaller woman's plump, feminine sterna plate. Her chitin was cool, and firm to touch, naturally resistant to being pierced or crushed, but flexible enough that it didn't restrict organs. Ms Paint squeaked a little at the touch.

 

The Parcel Mistress explored her body with her hands, paying special attention to the soft, sensitive areas that elicited the most rewarding little squeaks and sighs. Careful not to break the flow of her partners ministrations, Ms Paint slowly shifted around in PM's arms, until she was facing the taller Prospitan. She reached out to PM, and stroked her hand along the vulnerable part of her neck. She then scooted further down the mail lady's thorax, depriving the taller woman of most of her access, but allowing herself free reign of that exposed midriff. PM unwittingly lets out a gasp as Ms Paint's wet little tongue flitted across the seams of her petiolean sternites. 

When most of one’s body is numb and cased in armour, the parts that are sensitive, they feel really sensitive. PM squirmed as the playful pink appendage danced across her soft belly. Every touch and flick sent cascades of lightning rioting across her nerves.

 

She had to admit, the lovely Ms Paint was miles better at this than she was, but that was no reason to give up. PM ran her hands up the back of Ms Paint's femurs, and gave her trochanter a playful tickle. One of her hands slipped between, and she gave the mostly vestigial gaster a gentle stroke. Ms Paint let out a high pitched peep, which was immediately silenced as the Parcel Mistress inserted a long, hard finger into her glistening snatch. Playing with the thinner parts of a Prospitan’s carapace could easily leave them wordless, but the unbridled lightning of touching their unplated flesh stole their voice away. 

Ms Paint threw back her head, her mouth agape but silent, in an unheard testament to sensation. PM curled her finger against the fleshy wall; causing Ms Paint to squirm and thrash about on top of her. PM stopped twirling the smaller woman's trochanter, and uses her free arm to hold Ms Paint tight against her chest. This classy little lady wasn't going anywhere without an orgasm. The Parcel Mistress allowed herself a self-satisfied smirk, and then inserted another finger.

 

Ms Paint stopped squirming, and threw her arms around PM's waist, clutching her as though her life depended on it. Despite having almost no control over her body, Ms Paint still gently nuzzled against PM's midriff, ever the fetishist. The tall woman's fingers danced about inside Ms Paint, decorating her walls with their cool touch. With her eyes clenched shut, the small lady's soundless song echoed in the silence, not faltering for a moment. When a slightly acidic tang started to fill the air, PM knew her partner was close.

 

Ms Paint squeezed PM hard as she came. Clear, nutrient rich fluid splashed onto her dress. The lack of eggs or even ovipositor demonstrated her caste's sterility. The Parcel Mistress removed her fingers and held the paint lady as her orgasm passed. Once Ms Paint had recovered, she helped her to stand, careful of her injured foot, and pulled her lovely dress back down over her cute little tush. PM then brushed off her trousers, straightened her suit jacket and picked Ms Paint up off her feet. It just wouldn’t do to expect such a wonderful lady to walk home on an injury like that. As the Parcel Mistress, she is sworn to ensure everything under her supervision is delivered safely.

 

Tomorrow, the Parcel Mistress would leave for the Land of Wind and Shade, to oversee the delivery of critical objects to the Breeze's tubes.

 

Tomorrow, Ms Paint would return to the palace to assist the White Queen in directing troop movement and planning the war effort.

 

The day after, the war will end catastrophically.

 

But perhaps, if they both survived the tragedy, they might find each other again- In a different land, with different appearances, and after many years even, but perhaps fate will smile upon them and they might meet again.

 

They agree that it would be nice, with the good cheer only the truly nihilistic can muster.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent way too much time studying ant anatomy while writing this.


End file.
